I want to tell you about what's been happening each day
[when] in a simple language
the layers still [and] confound me. Still
if I start talking about family and unsteady
I end up with comedy, making
comedy . . . lettuce. Work. Sense:
the price of work these days[;] o[u]r nonsense
is astonishing. What I mean is: out of what was
it is, making me a new man, or
[how I] happened[.] [Once when I was]
not a better man[, I became one with] a different man.
Start again. I want and [swell,]
my legs feel bricked up, my chest only
bricked up, my arms. To stop [or start
is ineffectual when thinking
skips ahead or tries to tidy up
the unfixable presence.]
I am more than solid [--] stop [--]
and much less. [But] this isn't [what you] stop
for complaint, just observation. Rushing forward . . .
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1 comment:
Nada poem.
________
Last night I gave a reading and people laughed a lot--so much so that, at times, it was actually hard to continue. I just had to wait. And at the end, a few people cried. Also, some people told me that they didn't know what to feel or do with the work. All around the best reading I've ever done. It was pretty cool to experience mixed tone as it echoes off a human wall.
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